"What matters it whether the rose be fresh or withered? It dies sooner
or later. Nothing lasts, not even the world itself. You wish a rose,
not because it is a rose, fresh and fragrant, but because I give it to
you."
"You wrong me, Gretchen; I love a rose better than I love a woman. It
never smiles falsely, the rose, nor plays with the hearts of men. I
love a rose because it is sweet, and because it was made for man's
pleasure and not for his pain."
"That sounds like a copy-book," laughed Gretchen. "The withered rose
should teach you a lesson."
"What lesson?"
"That whatever a woman gives to man withers in the exchange; a rose, a
woman's love."
Said I reproachfully: "You are spoiling a very pretty picture. What do
you know about philosophy?"
"What does Herr know about roses?" defiantly.
"Much; one cannot pick too many fresh ones. And let me tell you a
lesson which you should have learned among these roses. Nature teaches
us to love all things fresh and beautiful; a rose, a face, a woman's
love."
"Here," holding forth a great red rose.
"No," said I, "I'll keep this one.
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